


Sunlight

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and the sunlight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunlight

She goes in search of him, had rushed out of the door to find him, to tell him the news. He's been out talking to the gardener, she knows, talking about what the fall arrangements can be now that all of the flowers are fading and gone.

The sunlight is soft and unusually warm and for that she is glad. It should be today, it should be warm and lovely outside; even the sky should celebrate today. She holds the hem of her dress up a bit and looks out over the rolling lawns, turns, looks the other direction.

He's there, among the oaks, walking with his hands clasped behind him, alone. The leaves are a blaze of color over him and the light is filtering through and for a moment, just for a minute, she stands still. Looks at him. Takes him in, drinks him in like cool water after a long walk.

He is very beautiful there, there with the russets and the golds and the browns all around him, all bathed in that soft dappled sun. He is lit from behind, softly on fire, and her breath catches a bit. He walks, examining the ground — she doesn't know what he's doing, what he's looking for in the big piles of neatly raked dry leaves — and all of that light slides over the big shoulders, the broad back. Glimmers gently on the silver hair, the fine smooth skin. His body is straight and solid and lovely in the perfectly pressed livery, his clasped hands manicured and so clean.

Elsie's hand wanders to her throat, her neckline; her heart constricts. He had been too old to call up, thank god, thank the gods, thank any god; he is here still, with her, not shot to death in some trench or blown to pieces in a foxhole. They have suffered loss, all too much of it, but he's here and healthy and alive and there's time enough, time enough for everything now. Her smile is small at first but grows quickly into a glad, beautiful thing and she runs to him then, holding up her hem, calling his name.

He turns at her call and she flings herself at him hard, wraps her arms tightly around his neck, shouts over his startled protests and questions, laughs at the sky, spills her joy over him like a waterfall.

"It's over, Mr. Carson. It's over."

Carson looks at her, not quite able to believe what she's saying. He's stunned, too stunned to pull away and push her arms down and restore their proper distance, and she's glad of that. Glad that she can stay here for a moment pressed against him, looking up at his beloved face, having this moment with him. Having this life with him.

" — are you quite sure, Mrs. Hughes?"

She nods, smiles, nods again. Makes a little noise of thrilled agreement, hums in her throat, and then she is off of her feet, he has lifted her into his arms and she laughs and he laughs with her and she relishes the strong forearms crossed behind her back, the smell of his hair pomade, the warmth of his big neck. It will end soon, she knows; he will gather his wits and sit her down carefully and apologize as he straightens his jacket and tie, but for now she'll enjoy it.

Except he isn't sitting her carefully on her feet, he's tumbling her into the nearest pile of leaves and standing over her, smiling, as she lays there lost in laughter, cushioned in the deep earthy pillow, her pretty calves on display as her skirts slide up her legs. She moves and her skirts slide a little more, and just the tops, just the very tops of her stockings show, there is the slimmest crescent of soft white skin revealed, the barest sliver. Her laughter slows but her smile remains and she reaches both hands up to him in a silent invitation and he gives her a little shake of his head, a gentle refusal, but he wants to. She can see that much in his eyes, in the soft angle of his neck as he looks down at her, in the smoothness of his brow. His face has not been this smooth and unlined with worry in months. Years. Elsie watches him as he looks at her, as he lets his gaze travel over her prone body, and she lets him.

Maybe it's the smell of the clean earth and the dry leaves, maybe it's the unexpected warm day, maybe it's the burden lifted off of their shoulders, but she doesn't care, doesn't mind a whit, isn't bothered by any of it, so she lifts a hand as he watches her, lifts a hand and unbuttons the top two buttons of her dress. Pauses for a moment as she thinks about it, wonders, then dares to unfasten a third. Slowly lets her hand drift back down, brush over her bust, and rest again over her ribs. Why not?

He smiles and his eyes crinkle with appreciation, with pleasure at her naughtiness, at her little flirtation.

"War's over, Mr. Carson."

She tugs her skirt just a bit higher, just a fraction of an inch so that sliver of softness turns into a small stretch, into a pretty little band of exposed velvet skin and he laughs, rubs his thumb over his chin.

After a long moment, after a long, long minute in which nothing is said except in silence, except in the gentle arch of a back, in the darkening of gray eyes, in the slight parting of covered thighs, in the sharp intake of ragged breath, after everything and nothing is said, Elsie reaches up again with both hands.

"War's over."

This time, he takes them.


End file.
